


A Desperate Moment

by AnonymousPumpkin



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: (It's blood magic man), Blood Magic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Major Illness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-26 07:18:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7565167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnonymousPumpkin/pseuds/AnonymousPumpkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In years to come, this would no doubt be considered a sudden decision made in a moment of desperation, but in truth Saarebas had put a great deal of thought into it. She knew what those in the village said of her, what they whispered in the dark. Witch, monster, savage. This would likely only prove them right, but she didn’t care. She didn’t care. Her daughter was dying.   There was only one power now that could possibly save her, and Saarebas was willing to pay the price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Desperate Moment

**Author's Note:**

> I’m....not entirely pleased with this. But you know what, I fucking finished it and that’s enough for me. This is a story that’s been stuck in my mind for awhile now (I started writing this a year ago, I wanna say), and I finally got the chops to get it down.
> 
> Saarebas and Zahrah have such a cool story and they deserve a better creator than me

Saarebas had seen much death in her life. She _was_ Saarebas, a weapon through and through, and if there was anything a weapon knew well, it was death. She had fought against Tevinter, she had fought Tal-Vashoth, and, in one notable instance she preferred to forget, she had even fought other Qunari. She had stood knee-deep in bodies, had slept feet away from the cooling corpses of her less-fortunate brothers, and had thought that she knew what it was to taste it, to feel it, to _smell_ it. Now, she knew she had been wrong. In that and so many other things, she had been _wrong_.

Saarebas decided that the smell of death was not of rot or of blood. It was not any scent of flesh or bone. It was not steel or fire, not bloated corpses or singing blades. Death smelled of potions and dust and bile, the scent thick and nauseating. It was hot glass burning her fingertips and sorting herbs she couldn’t name. It was not a quick thing, a knife across the throat or a wall of fire consuming her enemies. It was so much deeper, so much quieter, so much darker.

Death was not a body bleeding and broken. It was not a gaping wound or the sharp crack of a spell or the bitter taste of poison on your tongue. Death was a child, not even ten years old, horns not even fully grown, who struggled to breathe and struggled to rise. Death was a rattling cough, a spot of blood on the back of a delicate hand, soft sobs of pain in the night. It was a mother’s heart crushed again and again every morning, and her daughter’s reassuring smile and gentle voice.

_It’s alright, mutti, really, it is. It doesn’t hurt too bad._

When she slept, however, Zahrah couldn’t lie. Even in slumber, her chest caught and struggled and her mouth turned blue and she choked. Her lips were stained from their latest attempt at a cure, and her breath smelled of fermented fruit and earth. Even though Saarebas made sure to keep the window open to let the sun in, her little girl had lost her color from being inside so long, and when she complained at all, it was about that. Saarebas watched her, watching for the slightest change, the improvement that was never coming.

At first, the sickness had been mild, nothing more than shortness of breath...just a cough. It was bound to happen with the season, especially with a child as delicate as Zahrah. She had been a sickly baby, and while she had mostly grown out of it, the cold always left her coughing and weak. At first, it had been nothing worrying. There was no fever, no rash, no wounds to suggest there was anything more. Then the cough had gotten worse. The shortness of breath hadn’t eased up, no matter how long they waited. Then came the spots of blood, staining her palm where she covered her mouth. Then came the dizziness, the fainting spells. And now she was here, weak and struggling and...

 _Dying_. No one said the word, but they both knew it. Saarebas had tried so hard to deal with it alone, unwilling to let anyone near her child lest they make it worse, but when the blood came, she knew she could not handle this alone. In the end, it hadn’t mattered. Other healers, _bas_ healers, had come and go, and they had offered nothing. She had deigned to call on those she considered inferior, absolutely certain that they must know this illness that was unknown to her. But they hadn’t. And Zahrah continued to get worse, and Saarebas could _see_ the deadness that grew inside her stomach and her chest. Her daughter was _dying._

She had concocted so many potions in the past months, all of them failures. The scent of herbs clung to her permanently now, the itch of them always at the back of her throat. Her hands were stained green and black and red, with dirt and leaves crusted permanently under her claws and in the wrinkles on her hands. Her fingers ached from constantly plucking leaves, grinding roots, and stroking at a tiny gasping chest. This room had become a battlefield where she was doomed to fail. No swords cut her flesh and no chains bound her wrists, but here her magic was useless and her hands were useless and _she_ was useless. Her great strength would gain her no advantage here.

She hovered by Zahrah’s bedside, biting down on her tongue to keep from making the slightest sound. Sleep didn’t come easy to either of them these days, and she didn’t want to disturb her. Her fingers glowed faintly, the tendrils of white light creeping over her daughter’s skin, but it was to no avail. She was no healer, and she knew better than to try. All she could do was poke at the disease and pray that didn’t exacerbate it. Healing magic was a complex and nuanced science, and she hadn’t the patience to master it. Under the Qun, such things weren’t even considered, and what healing the saarebas knew was developed in secret and passed around to be performed when no one was watching. Small cuts and bruises she could heal easily, and she could ease the pain of a broken bone. But this was no skinned knee to laugh and kiss away. She had just enough knowledge that she could sense the sickness. She could trace it, could feel it growing and spreading and sapping away at her daughter’s life, but she was powerless beyond that. It was maddening, heartbreaking, devastating.

She petted at Zahrah’s hair, tucking the errant curls back into place. She whispered promises to the silent air, quiet vows that they would both live to see the morning. When Zahrah woke up, Saarebas promised to the unanswering silence, they would braid her hair in the thick pretty braid that she liked. She would even go out tonight and pick flowers to braid into it, the blue and pink ones that were her favorites. They would go down to the river in the morning and find pretty stones to play with, and they would play all the games Zahrah loved. They would go to the market and buy wax so she could preserve her flowers, and they would hang them about the doors and windows, and she would sell them to the pilgrims that always passed by this time of year. She could heal her...she _would_ heal her.

For a long time, Saarebas sat, and she thought. There _were_ ways. There were...connections. Facets. Things she had, until now, been too cautious to explore.

She’d heard whispers, rumors of greater power. She had never imagined such things under the Qun, had never thought that there even _was_ such a thing as greater power. She had thrown fire, ice, and stone, and she had bent the world to her will, but she had not thought of anything greater. It was not until she had left that she had realized. In their travels (such as they were), she and Zahrah had encountered others, the gifted _bas_ who had fled from their own flawed captivity. Sometimes they’d shared campsites, and Zahrah had batted her eyes and grinned and dragged information from them with her sweet, sing-song voice and her sweet, light laugh. Later, she would whisper to her mother in the tongue they shared, telling her everything they’d said. In the shadows, the saare _bas_ had whispered of other ways to get power, of a magic more visceral than she could have imagined. They had never talked about it to Zahrah, except to mention it in passing, forcing their voices to be casual, but they whispered, and she had very good ears. When they spoke to each other about it, sure that she did not understand, their voices shook and caught, and their eyes darted around as their hands closed into fists. Zahrah hadn’t understood what she’d parroted back to her mother, but she was not, thanks to every god, a mage. Saarebas understood. Little by little, she had put the pieces together.

She despised it. It was an abomination, an affront to all that was natural and good. The very thought of it turned her stomach. She thought of _speaking_ with one of those _things_ , those _monsters_ who hungered for her mind and her body, and she felt sick. But... _but_ … The thought of her little precious daughter, of her Zahrah still and cold...it made her blood turn to ice.

In years to come, this would no doubt be considered a sudden decision made in a moment of desperation, but in truth Saarebas had put a great deal of thought into it. The thought of it snuck up on her in the night, several weeks ago, a whisper that grew louder and louder until it consumed her every thought. The decision came slowly, with much rationalization and trepidation. It was that last potion that had made the choice easy. She had gone to great lengths to procure every ingredient, ignoring the warnings of what it could do if it failed. And in the end, it _had_ failed. It had stained her daughter’s mouth and it had sapped her of her warmth and it had made her blood thin, but it had not healed her. The woman who had given her the recipe had been clear: if this potion did not save her, it would doom her. Zahrah’s fate was sealed. There was only one power now that could possibly save her, and Saarebas was willing to pay the price.

It was easy to find a demon. Her desire was great and her despair was overwhelming. Her soul was a beacon to the starved beasts, and when she slept she attracted ravenous demons in droves. She beat back the weak, snarled and beat her chest and gnashed her teeth until they retreated. One suitable for her purposes came forward finally, fangs bared in a mockery of a smile. It wrapped its fingers about her wrists and promised her unlimited power, unlimited knowledge, all in exchange for a price, and surely it was so _small_ a price. She bared her teeth. She did not believe its lies. She knew what this meant for her, what it _truly_ wanted from her. But she agreed nonetheless, promising her flesh in exchange for its power. The agreement was made, the knowledge was gained. It looked through her eyes for a brief moment, saw the room full of empty bottles and open books, saw the small figure wasting away on the bed. She shut it out quickly. It would have her body when this was done, but it would have little else. It would not have her Zahrah.

Untrembling fingers gripped the hilt of the knife so tightly that her knuckles were white. She took a deep, steadying breath, renewing every promise she’d made. All it took was one cut and a moment of blinding pain and then...and then came the _power_. It flowed through her suddenly, making her blood boil and her mind race. The smell of herbs faded, the smell of potions faded, all overpowered by the sharp scent of blood and fire. Even the sounds of Zahrah’s labored breathing were drowned out by the demon’s song, and for a brief panicked moment, Saarebas felt it encroaching on her mind. She pushed it back with all of her strength, and turned back to the bed. She would not succumb. Not now. She had something to do first. They had a _deal_.

She pressed her fingers against Zahrah’s chest and reached into her flesh. Her consciousness spread through her flesh, seeking the corruption. She found the death growing inside her daughter’s chest and abdomen. It was black and red and physical, rotting lumps of matter that leached the life from her. She bared her teeth and growled aloud as if she could physically intimidate this unliving foe.

She had to be careful, brutal, and fast. She found every trace of the sickness and mercilessly she burned it away. She was not gentle. She smashed herself against it until she was tired and shaking. She chased it through her daughter’s body like a hound and ripped it apart.

The air smelled of blood and burned flesh. She could see the residue the demon left behind: a thick black coat of _wrong_ on the inside of her daughter’s body. It sickened her, but she knew she would have preferred that taint to what had been there before. This _sludge_ was benign, and the sickness was not.

Finally, she could sense the venom no more. No more growths, no more leeches, no more draining strength.

Slowly, reluctantly, the rush of power ended. She wrestled with the demon, ripping it apart as savagely with her mind as she would have with her claws, beating at it until her mind was bruised and all she could imagine was the image of raw, bleeding flesh and the smell of singed hair and hot metal. She never doubted for a moment that she would prevail, but before the demon retreated into dormancy, it blazed through her with one final surge of pain. Her ears rang and she saw only white, and she waited for her head to clear. Slowly, she sank back into reality, to the room choking her with the scent of death. All was silent. All she could hear was the pounding of her own heart, drowning out all else.

She left a scar on Zahrah’s chest, a long, thick line as if her chest had been split apart by a blade. It started at her collarbone and sliced all the way down below her navel, ending with a nasty knot between her hips. It would be the first scar of many, Saarebas knew. Life would not be kind to her little flower, to her delicate daughter, certainly no kinder than it had ever been to her. She didn’t care. She didn’t _care_. So long as she was alive to be scarred, that was all that mattered.

When the magic faded and the taste of blood faded from her mouth, Saarebas nearly collapsed. Her body felt as if it had been pressed beneath a mountain, and her mind felt raw and exhausted. She fell to her knees, forehead resting against the filthy sheets, and she waited. She waited until she heard the first breath that was not ragged, the first cough that wasn’t laced with blood, and then she lifted her head.

**Author's Note:**

> Protip: Don't use magic to heal your kid.


End file.
